


The Skeptic Loved his Goddess

by Anam_Writes



Series: princes love dragons; it's just a fact [7]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Implied Sexual Content, Post-Canon, Post-Time Skip, Romantic Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, did i write 600 words of just cute?, why yes I did
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:21:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23673772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anam_Writes/pseuds/Anam_Writes
Summary: Claude worships his wife. Really, he does.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Series: princes love dragons; it's just a fact [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1610308
Comments: 17
Kudos: 101
Collections: A Merry Kind of War





	The Skeptic Loved his Goddess

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maddy02](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maddy02/gifts).



> [Maddy02](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maddy02/pseuds/Maddy02) wanted to get revenge on me with [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23637601) lovely piece of fiction. 
> 
> As I plotted my vengeance I realized I should fin it in my heart to pass on love and forgiveness instead. So here. Have the best prose I could muster and some pure fluff to heal whatever wounds my angst leaves, everyone.

His love, surrender? It could not be. 

Not as skies tore open and rained her power upon the land. Not when the wind still sang her song and the flowers still bloomed at her feet. Not when ancient was the dirt of her continent beneath his knees. Not when air rippled as water against silk, silk against skin, and skin against soul. 

She was divinity: a force he’d long tried to reckon and long given up on.

He offered his glove, soaked through in cold drinking water, to cool her red cheeks in the heat of his deserts. He offered his arms to carry her up his mountains. Offered his city and palace to shade her from the elements. 

Though she needed no water to temper his heat, needed no arms to scale his mountains, needed no walls to bear his country, she accepted.

She was power and flight, heaven and earth, all the dreams of his nights and visions in his day. But her modesty was generous, her pride quiet. 

His love, surrender? It could not be. 

So as her hand fell twice to the flattened golden grass he came to lie beside her. As she withdrew from their bout - shoulder-to-shoulder, her might against his - he smiled. 

“You would have beaten me,” he told her. No reassurance to her vanity was made. It was only the truth, and she heard it as such. “Are you feeling well?”

With her back to the world and her eyes to the clouds she pointed up. Fresh water made pure and white in the skies, twisting with the currents of the heavenly oceans. 

“What does that one look like to you?” She asked. 

He tilted his head. “Like a cat I think. A big, fluffy, white Almyran.”

Byleth was quiet. She smiled. “I see a cloud.”

Claude laughed. His hands raised and in the net of his fingers he laid his head back. “As valid an interpretation as any, love.”

She nodded. She hummed. 

She rolled until she lay against his side. Hair as silk and a soft cheek rested on his chest. Fingers ran the line of skin peeking from the drop of his tunic.

She is dew and shell where he is sweat and flesh. Even tangled he held her to him like a sacred thing. Even dangerous he scratched her scalp like she was delicate. Even as she raised her head and her gaze bore down on him, sinking into the pits where once he did not let her sun shine, his soul lifted. 

He offered his lips as a prayer against her own, his hand in hers as charity in her name. He offered his heart pumping blood between ribs as sacrifice. He offered the waft of his barley fields about them as the incense. 

His love, surrender? It was not that. 

She had won their match. Her victory was decisive, as it always would be. 

Even with her tap unto the ground and the ceasing of her body’s push against his own it was a play he had fallen for, a feint that brought his shoulder to the floor and her atop him in his rolling fields upon her wide earth. 

When they are done with their alchemy, when he has made her dew sweat and her shell flesh, when they have built life from nothing, he gives her more prayers to drink from his lips. More charity comes from his hands. The sacrifice of his heart beats twice as fast, taking what pulse hers might have had as his own. 

“Poets will say the skeptic loved his goddess,” he whispers.

“As only a skeptic could.”


End file.
